Clearly the orders came from very high up indeed, if they overrode a clan feud. Arrak heard a rumor that the order originated within the Imperial Palace, which meant Crown Prince Thrakhath must have taken a personal interest in the matter. But it would not be easy, in the heat of a major battle, to carry out those instructions.

The renegade was better dead anyway. Years ago he had defected, carrying an entire capital ship and enough vital secrets to set back the Imperial war effort by a decade. Since that time, the scum (once a Lord of the Empire but now nothing more than an outcast) actually dared fly human fighters against his own kind.

Well, the confusion of battle made it difficult to know when orders were violated accidentally . . . or deliberately. And given any chance at all, Arrak knew he would not turn from destroying the traitor Ralgha if the chance presented itself.

"Hunt Flight," he said, exulting at the approach of battle. "Prepare to engage!"

"Here they come!"

"Maintain formation. Meet the enemy with overwhelming force, and he will be ours."

"Look sharp, people . . ."

The voices on the radio were growing more and more excited, except for the rigidly controlled growl from Hobbes. Blair could feel his own adrenaline pumping as if he was already on the firing line beside the other pilots. He fought to keep from adding encouraging comments of his own to the radio traffic that was already out there.

He checked his autopilot display again. ETA four minutes . . .

Blair was torn between waiting for the outlying patrol ships to assemble and refuel so the entire force could strike at once, and plunging straight into the fray as quickly as he and Flint could to reach the vicinity of the Victory. Eisen had urged them not to lose any time, but a larger relief force would certainly have been worth a few extra minutes.

In the end, though, Blair had decided that he and Flint needed to join the others as quickly as possible. The question of how well Hobbes could control the wing loomed over him in addition to the potential ill effects on morale if Blair missed the second large-scale fight mounted by his flight wing. So he left instructions for the two interceptor patrols to form a single relief flight, but he and Flint were already on their way into battle.

He was glad of the decision now. It would be four minutes before the two Thunderbolts could join their comrades, and in combat, four minutes could be an eternity.

"They're breaking formation," a voice announced. Blair thought it was Lieutenant Chang. "Starting their attack runs . . . now!"

"I've got the first hairball," Maniac Marshall announced. "Watch my tail, Sandman."

"Do not lose contact with your wingmen," Ralgha's voice urged. "And do not let them draw you away from the carrier."

From the chatter, Blair could picture the unfolding battle even before Rollins fed him tactical information on his monitors. They counted at least thirty incoming Kilrathi ships, a mix of Dralthi and lighter Darket, ranged against eighteen Confed fighters and the larger but less responsive hull-mounted defensive batteries aboard Victory. From the sound of things, Hobbes was trying to keep the Terran craft in a rough defensive line, with paired wingmen watching over one another. But hotheads like Marshall were likely to let themselves be distracted by individual opponents and drawn into dogfights, forgetting the big picture.

The Kilrathi had ships to spare. They would still be able to hurl a powerful force against the Terran carrier after all the screening fighters were accounted for.

"I've got the next one." That voice, cold and deadly, belonged to Lieutenant Buckley. Another pilot easily drawn by the enemy, if she took her attitude into the cockpit with her. "See how you like this, kitty!"

"I always heard about target-rich environments!" Blair recognized the voice as belonging to Captain Max "Mad Max" Lewis, another Gold Squadron pilot. "C'mon, Vaquero, let's show them a thing or two!"

"Scratch one! Scratch one! We have achieved kitty litter!" Marshall's cry was triumphant.

"Make that two," Cobra chimed in a moment later. Despite the depth of her hatred, she sounded as tightly controlled as Hobbes, as if the wild passion were translated into a cold, deadly intensity.

Blair checked his autopilot. Two minutes . . .

"Flint, go to afterburners," he ordered. "Full power. Let's get up there!" He shoved his throttles fully into the red zone, feeling the extra G-force press him against his seat.

"Maniac! Maniac! I've got two on my tail! Give me a hand, Maniac!" That was Marshall's wingman, Lieutenant Alex Sanders, running name Sandman. After a pause, he went on, voice rising with excitement . . . or panic. "For God's sake, Maniac, give me a hand!"

"Break left on my signal, Sandman," Ralgha's voice cut him off. "Steady . . . steady . . . break!"

The tactical sensors were picking up details of the battle now, and Blair watched as the symbols representing Hobbes and Vagabond moved together to support the beleaguered Sanders. Maniac Marshall was far away now, almost at the limit of the scans, hotly engaged with a Dralthi and paying little attention to the other Confed pilots.

One of the Kilrathi ships pursuing Sandrnan disappeared under the onslaught of Ralgha's sudden attack, while Chang dove in toward the second and forced it to break off.

"Thanks, Hobbes," Sanders said, a little breathless now. "I . . . thanks."

"I'm hit! Front armors gone . . . my shields . . ." Mad Max Lewis was almost incoherent. "He's coming in for another pass . . . Noooooo!!"

The symbol representing the Terran Thunderbolt faded from Blair's tactical screen. The rest of the fighters were jumbled together, a mad, chaotic dance played on the screen while Blair clenched his hands around his steering yoke in frustration. Gold Squadron was fully engaged now, while the lighter craft of Red Squadron operated on the fringes of the battle, surrounding any Kilrathi ships that penetrated the defensive line. But the sheer weight of numbers began to play a major role as more and more Kilrathi pilots jumped into the fray. Even though they flew as individuals, they were still a team determinedly pressing their Terran opponents.

"Enemy coming into range, Colonel!" Flint warned. "What's your pleasure?"

"Stick close, Flint," he said, powering up his weapons and locking his targeting array on the nearest Dralthi. "And watch my back. Things are going to get pretty damned rough out here in a second or two!"

His target chased a Thunderbolt, the two fighters circling each other, attempting to find some type of advantage. Now, as Blair and Flint appeared, the Dralthi broke off and rolled left, dodging and juking as it tried to gain some distance.

"Not this time, fuzzball," Blair said, lining up the crosshairs and opening fire with his blasters. The energy bolts raked along the top of the enemy fighter, hitting directly behind the cockpit, between two large, forward-sweeping bat-wings. The Kilrathi fighter seemed to stagger and wrenched away to port as the pilot tried to evade. Blair used his thrusters to spin his ship in flight and lined up on the Dralthi again before the Kilrathi could finish his turn.

His fingers tightened over the firing stud, and the blasters tore through the weakened shields and armor. The fighter disappeared in a ball of flame and spinning debris. "Got him!" Blair said. He checked his sensor rnonitor for a fresh target.

"Thanks for the assist, Colonel," said the pilot of the fighter he had rescued. It was Lieutenant Mitchell Lopez, Vaquero, who had been Mad Max's wingman.